


maybe it's because I'm a Londoner

by SmilinStar



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: F/M, winter fic swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 10:03:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13269141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: But Sara’s surprisingly forgiving today. Must be the Christmas spirit, as she says, “I want to seeyourLondon, Rip. Not the one you think we want to see.”“It’s notmyLondon,” he corrects.“You know what I mean.”He nods and relents. “Well, in that case Captain, allow me to be your guide for the day.”





	maybe it's because I'm a Londoner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wallyallens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallyallens/gifts).



> For Meg, who is amazing. And also thanks to Mina, who is a star for reading this over for me <3

 

*

 

“Welcome to London!”

So, all right, _yes_. Rip’s starting to sound a bit like a broken record, but he’s never not meant it. And he _really_ does mean it this time. Wholeheartedly.

Standing here, in the middle of sprawling Hyde Park, the excitement is literally oozing from his pores. There’s a force field of energy that’s cascading outwards from him. Admittedly, it’s not having quite the desired effect of inflicting them all with the same abundant enthusiasm, but that won’t deter him in the slightest.

Because this isn’t Victorian London – the one tainted by Dickensian darkness, highlighting the bleak existence of the poor and lowest dredges of society that exploit them; and nor is it the East London of his tragic future – which the less is said about, the better.

No, it’s 2020.

And this is a London he thinks of fondly.

Oh, it has its problems, of course. Inner city pockets of crime and destitution on the rise, the homeless and the hungry – a commonplace, perennial concern that’s resistant to all drives for change. And then there’s the sky-high travel fares, still no air-conditioning on the Central Line and overcrowding on the Tube, plus the never-ending roadworks and diversions for traffic on the always teeming roads. May as well add the cold, wet weather to the list as well – a tired, worn complaint though it may be.

But _it’s London_.

And, well, there’s no other place quite like it.

“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t spend Christmas in Lapland this year,” Jax grumbles yet again, arms folding across his chest and feet kicking at the grass as he stares Rip down.

“Because Saint Nicholas is a delusional, 23rd century time-travelling, technology hoarding pirate, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of indulging him his whims!”

Wide-eyed, bewildered expressions zero in on him, and he shifts uncomfortably on the spot. He may have said more than he intended to just then . . .

Sara cocks her brow, and says through a poorly hidden smirk, “Kinda altruistic for a Time Pirate.”

He can’t help the look he shoots her; one that pleads ‘trust me’ and ‘drop it’ all at the same time. Because, yes, there’s a story there. And no, he’s not going to tell it now. He’s on a tight schedule.

“Wait a minute . . .” Ray starts, and he can see him putting the pieces together and the exact moment it all falls into place. “Oh,” he breathes out, and looks positively despondent at finally realising Father Christmas isn’t real thirty years too late.

“So,” Rip says then loud and clear, clapping his hands together and moving things swiftly along, “I have the day all planned out, and first-”

“No,” Mick interrupts.

“Mr Rory?”

“No to the art galleries and red buses – I _hate_ buses. No to the museums. No to whatever boring team-bonding activities you’ve decided would be good for us.”

Rip shoves down the irritation at being so summarily dismissed, although it may have more to do with him being assessed so accurately by Mr Rory of all people. Well, _almost_ accurately: his itinerary makes no mention of a bus tour. Frankly, he doesn’t get what the big deal is about their red double-deckers. Too many of them, and yet never there when you need them.

“Well, what would you prefer to do, Mr Rory?”

His eyes glint, and Rip’s suddenly certain this whole thing has been a terrible error in judgement.

“Tower of London.”

_Of course_.

“And let me guess, the Crown Jewels are of particular interest to you?”

Mick shrugs and the grin on his face isn’t altogether comforting. “Just wanna have a look. Nothing wrong with that.”

Jax snorts and says what they’re all thinking: “Yeah right. You wanna steal them, more like!”

Mick doesn’t deny it. If anything, the look he shares with Mr Jackson only confirms it.

“Absolutely not!” Rip splutters.

“Oh, let him try!” Sara says then, in a way that suggests he’ll fail miserably. Her hand rests on his shoulder as she moves to stand beside him, and it’s enough apparently to persuade him against his better judgement. Sara has an uncanny knack for it.

“Fine!” He looks over at Martin, and his meaning must be clear as the older man’s face falls.

“I was rather hoping I could visit the Royal Observatory. I’ve always wanted to stand astride the Meridian Line.”

“You do realise you’ve been travelling through time these past four years?” Nate pipes up, incredulous that of the things on Stein’s bucket list that would still be one.

“Yes, well,” is all the Professor says in answer to that.

The heart wants what it wants, after all. Rip knows that only too well as he resists the urge to look down at the woman beside him.

“It’s fine, Professor,” he acquiesces, clearing his throat, “you can do that after you’ve visited the Tower of London with Mr Rory. I believe it’s less than half an hour away from there.”

Martin agrees, and the two set off, disappearing down one of the paths leading towards Lancaster Gate station if Rip remembers right.

Hyde Park is busy as usual, though the annual Winter Wonderland attraction provides an extra layer of distraction. Perfect for landing the Waverider unseen, and making it the ideal place to park and cloak it away.

“And what about the rest of you?” he asks, shifting his weight and looking at each of them in turn.

Unsurprisingly, Ray pipes up first; “I’d love to get inside Buckingham Palace. I’ve always wondered what it’s like. And ooh! I’d love to meet the Queen!”

“I rather suspect she’s not in,” Rip mutters, not that Ray hears him as he rambles on:

“Oh, and I definitely want to see Trafalgar Square, and Piccadilly Circus? Or Madame Tussauds and Baker Street? I mean Sherlock Holmes! Wow. Or maybe-”

“How about you just take this map,” Rip interrupts, handing him the folded-up piece of paper he retrieves from his coat pocket, “and see how much you can fit in, Dr Palmer?”

Jax smiles up at Ray and shakes his head, before turning to Rip, “I’ll go with him.”

“Excellent. Grand idea, Mr Jackson. And you, Miss Tomaz?”

Zari looks up at him, and he finally notices the candy cane she’s chewing on. He’s not sure when she disappeared to get herself one of those.

“I’m cool here,” she shrugs, looking at all the stalls in the distance, the rides being set up, and the ice rink that’s slowly filling up.

It seems a bit of a waste to spend the day here; Rip doesn’t think of the Wonderland as anything particularly special – it’s not the London he wanted to share – but it’s not his choice and he’s learning to accept that not much is.

“I’ll come with you,” Amaya says to Zari, and he can’t help but notice Dr Heywood look a little crestfallen at that as he’d been quite obviously edging towards Jax and Ray, hoping Amaya would join the boys. The duelling desire plays out across the man’s face. Romance or Bromance, are apparently his options.

“Nate?” It’s Sara who asks him.

Bromance wins out as he points a finger at Ray after a second of indecision, and Nate gets a gleeful arm around his shoulder for his choice.

The team disperse and with them gone, it leaves just him and _her_.

And the manic energy that had possessed him in a bid to stay calm – contradictory though it is – has all but abandoned him now.

He’s not sure he wants to ask her. Too afraid of her answer. But as the silence descends and they’re left on their own, he knows he must.

So he takes a breath and tests his luck. “And last, but by no means least. Captain Lance? What is it you wish to see?”

She glances up at him.

The expression on her face is unreadable for only a moment. She says nothing as she slips an arm through his, presses her shoulder into him and lets a smile break in answer.

It’s bitingly cold. So cold, he thinks the chances of snow may have increased since he last checked the weather forecast, but he doesn’t feel it. At all. No, he feels unseasonably warm in his coat, with Sara Lance snuggled into his side, her smile turning more mischievous by the second.

_Oh dear_ , he thinks. _I’m in trouble_.

He has been since the first day he met her.

He hopes he can explain away the blush on his cheeks with the cold, but from the glint in her eyes he realises it’s game over.

Yes. She’s onto him.

But Sara’s surprisingly forgiving today. Must be the Christmas spirit, as she says, “I want to see _your_ London, Rip. Not the one you think we want to see.”

“It’s not _my_ London,” he corrects.

“You know what I mean.”

He nods and relents. “Well, in that case Captain, allow me to be your guide for the day.”

And as they head off, he thanks small mercies for at least _one_ of his plans coming together.

 

*

 

Rip’s London is exactly as she’d imagined.

Quiet, winding cobblestone streets found through dark alleyways. All leading away from the hustle and bustle of the main roads, filled with people and cars, and modern-day buildings amongst the old. Hidden gems of coffee shops, antique stores and boutiques tucked away in the corners you’ll only find if you’re looking.

After he’s done showing her those, she finds herself being guided past the food stalls inside Borough Market, weaving her way around the bottle green pillars and swarms of people grabbing late lunches. Rip offers commentary on what’s on offer, stopping now and again to point out his favourites and she can’t keep the incredulous look from off her face.

He stops, and scoffs at her surprise, “I don’t know where you lot have got this idea that I live off scotch and jellybeans, but I assure you I have quite the remarkable palate.”

She raises a brow, grins back at him.

It’s met with rolling eyes and a faint blush.

She helps herself to all the little morsels of food they put on display in attempts to lure you to buy more. Of course, she doesn’t buy a thing, leaving Rip to shake his head and feel guilty enough for the both of them.

After all, what’s a little more guilt to add to his already heavy burden?

It bothers her. Of course it does.

It isn’t to say that’s he’s not faultless. That it’s not unwarranted. But it’s been a long time now. And he’s been forgiven. Many times over. The only person who hasn’t forgiven him is _himself_.

She’s had this conversation with him. Sara had thought that sharing the Captaincy, or dividing the role in a way befitting their expertise, would have made the point loud and clear. But nope, it seems like they have a long way to go yet.

He even still defers to her on missions. The choice of destination for their well-deserved winter break after defeating Mallus is the first unilateral decision he’s made for some time.

And she wonders at its significance.

Because maybe she’s imagining it, but she thinks there’s an added twinkle of something to the intensity of his gazes now. And that together with the flush on his cheeks when he’s caught in the act allows a little hope to take root every single time.

This setting doesn’t help much either.

Strolling the streets of London, arm in arm, cheeks flushed, eyes smiling as he points out landmarks. Regaling her with stories of all the places and sights he’s fond of with relish.

It’s _something_.

She’s never really been wined and dined, ‘wooed’, as Rip might say, but she imagines it to feel a lot like this and she doesn’t really know what to do with it.

Because, this? For Rip? It’s _bold_.

“How do you know this place so well?” she asks, and the glance he sends her has her rolling her eyes this time. “I mean, I know it’s London. But you said it yourself, it’s not the London of your time. You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

“Well,” he shrugs, “not to this time exactly, but close enough.”

Sara waits for the rest of the story, but it doesn’t come. She doesn’t have time to get irritated, though, because he’s suddenly tugging on her hand and they’re off running.

It says something about what their lives are that her first instinct is to look behind her –every sense heightened, fingers searching for the hilt of her dagger, ready to take on any threat. She realises a moment later that Rip’s not running from danger, but rather chasing one of the open back red buses down the road. The traffic has built up enough for it to come to a standstill, allowing them to catch up and for him to pull her aboard.

He’s a little winded as he lets go of her hand and wraps one around the red metal pole in front of him, the other searching his pocket for his Oyster card before pressing it to the yellow reader on the side. At his pointed look, Sara follows his lead and fishes out her own card. She returns his gaze with her own expectant one, hands curling around the same pole to steady herself as the bus moves off with a hiss and rumble of the engine.

He sighs. “I visited a few times in the years I was building the Bureau.”

“A few times?”

He nods.

“Why?”

“Because I could,” he says – a complete non-answer.

She feels a familiar frustration itching under her skin. Rip’s penchant for being cryptic and only ever telling half a story sadly isn’t something he’s managed to kick entirely to the curb. He’s trying to be more open, sure, but old habits creep in – the weeds deep-rooted and hard to kill.

She knows it’s written all over her face. It’s why he won’t look at her, eyes focussing instead on the windows and the traffic moving in the opposite direction.

The bus ride is a short one and they’re hopping off onto Westminster Bridge, and he still hasn’t said any more. She follows him down the steps onto the embankment, the Houses of Parliament lining the water on the opposite side; the London Eye a familiar silhouette amongst the City’s skyline behind them.

She stops mid-stride, and waits for him to notice.

He does.

“Sara?”

She moves towards one of the wooden benches, sits down and stares back at him.

Rip tilts his head at the grey skies and sighs. “It’s really not that interesting of a story.”

“Tell me anyway.”

He blows out another breath before taking the few steps back towards her and sitting down in the empty spot she left him.

“Building the Bureau was hard work,” he begins to tell her. “I was certain I was doing the right thing. I believed completely in the endeavour. It’s necessity. And at first, it was fine. I was so focussed on creating it, that when it was done, I felt myself floundering.”

He doesn’t look at her.

“What do you mean?”

“I felt lost. I missed –” he stops, and starts, “I missed a lot of things.”

Sara fills in the blanks of what he’s not saying and it’s like her insides are blazing alight with feeling, and all she wants to do is reach out and hold his hands, and tell him that _she missed a lot of things too._

But she doesn’t, says instead, “You missed home.”

He nods.

“This isn’t really your home,” she retorts, hand waving around them.

“I know that. But it’s the closest I have to one, and I wasn’t going to go to 2166 for obvious reasons.”

She tilts her head in acknowledgement, twisting ever so slightly towards him so her knee brushes against his.

“Do you still feel like that?” she asks softly.

“Like what?” he asks, eyes on the murky depths of the River Thames, turning darker every minute. Evening draws closer earlier in the winter months. It’s not even half three in the afternoon and the skies are already turning dark. The street lights blink on, the Christmas decorations hanging from the lamps, the trees, all sparkling to life, and it starts to feel like a whole new city.

“Like you don’t really have a home?”

Rip looks at her then.

Eyes dark, and she still hasn’t figured out exactly what that look means, though she has her suspicions, and she feels she’s getting closer to unravelling its secret.

He says nothing; only stands and offers his hand. “Come on, then, Captain. Lots left to see.”

And it must mean something that it’s him with the outstretched hand this time. And not her.

She doesn’t let it go to waste. She slips her hand into his.

And despite the chill, his hand is warm.

 

*

 

There’s something about seeing the wonder of his city through someone else’s eyes.

Her eyes.

He can see her falling a little more in love with it, one street at a time. Not that she’ll admit it, he knows.

Of course, most of it’s undone when he has to get them onto the London Underground. The novelty wears off the moment they have to push themselves onto a packed train and Sara finds herself eye level with a man’s armpit, sweat soaking through the shirt.

Rip stands in front of her, holding onto the rail above his head and grins down at her as she shoots daggers at his amusement. As the train moves off she loses her balance just a fraction and leans into him. He hopes the ruckus of the train on the tracks as it hurtles through the tunnels is enough to mask his racing heart.

Because Sara Lance may just be falling in love with the city, but he’d fallen in love with her a long time ago.

He just hasn’t figured out how to tell her – or if he should at all.

He’d been hoping that today would help; that letting her get a glimpse of a little more of him through the sights and sounds of a place near and dear to him, would give him the courage to do so.

But as the daylight fades, and the evening starts to settle in, he hears the tick of the clock in the wind and he fears the day’s been wasted.

They re-enter Hyde Park through the Knightsbridge entrance, the winding paths leading towards the Serpentine. There are no row boats on the water – boating season being at an end two months ago, and yet he doesn’t correct his path.

Sara seems to realise where they’re heading, and he can see the bemusement on her face as she glances sideways up at him.

“It’s closed,” she says.

He stops and twists so that he’s in front of her now, and he says with a raised brow, “Is it?”

Hope blooms once more at the sight of a smile turning her face soft, eyes bright in the darkness as they reflect the lights that have lit up the entire park.

He can feel her eyes on his as he hurries on ahead and manages to jump the fence cordoning off the boats.

“You know that’s stealing?” she says with a smirk, the words familiar as she follows after him.

“When has that ever stopped me?” he bats back.

She shakes her head, watching him push the row boat out before climbing in and holding out his hand.

She takes it.

“We’re going to get caught,” she says, settling back as Rip takes control of the wooden oars.

“And when has that ever bothered you?” he asks her.

“It doesn’t,” she shrugs, “I’m just wondering how long we’ve got, and if it’s enough time for you to spit out whatever it is you’ve been wanting to say to me all day?”

He can’t help the little stutter in his rowing motion at the words and risks a glance up at her. There’s a familiar reckless glint in her eyes, and maybe, once upon a time, he may have run at the sight. But life, he’s realised, is much too short, even with the infinite possibilities of time at your fingertips.

And so he says with a smile, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Captain Lance,” and makes it a point to meet her gaze and hold it.

His lips say one thing, his eyes another.

She’s the first to look away as they come to a standstill.

The water around them is now an inky black to reflect the sky. Streaks of electric blue and white with glimmers of red and green bounce off the ripples of water from the nearby funfair. There’s the faint sound of laughter carried in the cold breeze.

“Why did you bring me here, Rip?”

“You wanted to see my London.”

It’s not enough. She wants more, and he never could say no to her.

“I used to come here a lot,” he adds. “There’s just something peaceful about here. And I wanted to share it with you.”

Sara nods, looks away.

And he wonders if now’s the time. He’s been thinking about this moment for months. Months where he’s started to believe that maybe he wasn’t alone in his feelings. That it’s been a long time for him – _long enough_ – and he doesn’t need to torture himself with the guilt any more.

It’s now or never, he realises.

_Now or never._

“Earlier, when I said I missed a lot of things, Sara. I meant the team. The Waverider.”

She nods, “I know.”

He takes a deep breath. “But mostly, I meant _you_.”

She says nothing to that. Eyes turning instead to meet his and holding him there as his mouth turns unbearably dry, heartbeat a rapid thump-thump-thump rushing in his ears.

It’s a nervous sort of energy that buzzes under his skin now as he tells her what he hasn’t been brave enough to before now. “I’m sorry about how things –”

“Say sorry one more time and I’ll capsize this tiny boat and let you freeze to death.”

Rip huffs out a laugh in surprise, his breath turning to instant clouds of white in front of him in the cold, winter air.

She’s edged closer and he has no idea when she’d managed to do that.

Her hand lands tentatively on his knee as she looks up at him, blue eyes open and glittering with stardust, the map of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks clearing a path for his thumb to brush over as he reaches out to hold her face in his hand.

“I’m glad we’re here now,” she says.

His eyes drop to her lips.

Hers follow suit.

“Me too.”

And he wants to kiss her, tell her everything he’s run out of words for, and for a bright, shining moment, it’s a reality waiting to happen, not just remnants of an impossible dream he’s grasped at countless times before.

_But then:_

“Captains? Captain Lance? Captain Hunter? Uh, guys? You there?”

The voice is loud and clear in his ears, in both their ears, shattering the moment in one fell swoop. With his heart beating wildly already, Rip resists the urge to swear out loud as his hand falls away and he reels back. Sara has no such qualms though as she curses, “Dammit, Ray!”

Seems they’d both forgotten about their comms.

Talk about timing.

Rip manages to clear his throat and steady his voice, “Yes, Dr Palmer?”

Ray sounds both sheepish and apologetic, and yet it does little to check his irritation. “Uh, sorry to interrupt your date with Sara –”

“It’s not a date.”

“Sure,” Nate chimes in from somewhere in the background as Sara says the same in front of him.

He looks back at her sharply and sees the teasing grin on her face.

She shrugs and he’s shaking his head with the beginnings of his own smile.

Not that it lasts long as Ray continues his sentence;

“But Professor Stein’s just called us, and uh, that thing? That thing you told Mick not to do, well . . .”

“And by _that thing_ , Dr Palmer, are you referring to trying to steal the Queen’s crown jewels by any chance?”

“Maybe?”

He shares a look of pure suffering with Sara before shaking his head.

“We’ll be right there,” he says as there’s a faint buzz and a click as Ray severs the connection again, leaving the two of them alone once more.

“I guess it’s time to go break the kids out of prison, huh?” she asks as he picks up the oars.

“Never a dull moment with you lot.”

“But you love us anyway.”

And it feels like she’s asking him something else.

And so he doesn’t think about it, just leans forward and presses his lips to hers, a quick fleeting promise of more, and whispers against her skin, “I do.”

She presses her forehead against his and breathes out. “Merry Christmas, Rip.” 

Rip simply smiles. A true, honest-to-God smile he hasn’t felt belonged on his face. Not for a long time. Not until today.

“Merry Christmas, Sara.”

 

**End.**

 


End file.
